A Rose For Gaza

Gaza is a garden full of roses.

Stone roses.

Rock roses.

No petals to crush and bruise

to release their fragrance.

Only dust.

Dust and the stench

of death.

No green space left.

No sweet tranquility,

peace or quiet.

No escape.

No garden of Eden here.

No gateway to paradise.

Rubble and rock roses.

So I shall plant a rose for Gaza

in my green space,

in my tranquil garden.

I won’t bruise it,

just gently sniff its fragrance

and hope that one day

fragrant roses will bloom again

in the garden of Gaza.

What else can I do?

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6306

Predictable

I feel such a bright energy flowing,

zipping through my veins.

I can’t wait to move with it,

to uproot myself,

to be transplanted and reborn,

to recreate myself 

at the time when all of nature

is recreating itself and starting afresh.

I will be reborn too in another place.

I’ve done it before and felt the new buds open,

bursting and shooting into a new life.

I've felt the excitement of the new spaces,

embraced the interest in the new peoples’ faces.

And then..

I’ve opened up my blowsy petals and

let my heart show through

pulsing,

exuberant,

ready

to turn towards the summer sun,

not believing it will destroy

my bloom,

make my petals fade and fall

when the shock of the new wears off

and the fresh green shoots start to brown,

and prepare for the season of wrinkles,

which always follows,

as my life folds out as before.

Soon I’ll be getting ready 

for the ice of winter

in this new place.

A new place, but

with the same person in it.

To change where I am is the easy part.

To change who I am is difficult, hardly possible.

But without this change, 

nothing will change,

except that summer will have gone,

winter will surely follow fall

and spring will be a long way away.

First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, May 2016

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 The Funeral of Bosco Jones

Twenty years ago Bosco Jones died after a long and purposeful life.

His children, (long departed from their roots), returned.

“Don’t worry, Mum”, they said, “we’ll see to everything.

We’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”

They arranged a splendid funeral with a vicar and hymns and flowers.

A lot of people went, for Bosco had made an impact during his life.

They left the doors open so that all those outside could hear

And join in the proceedings.

There was nice churchy music and an atmosphere of peace and serenity.

The vicar began the service with a lot of talk of God and Mrs Jones stopped crying.

She started to look around her and take in the proceedings.

She seemed somewhat agitated and alarmed.

Then she stood up and shouted at the vicar, shaking her fist,

“I’m having none of this!” she cried,

“My Bosco didn’t believe in all this claptrap and nonsense!”

Some people cheered in agreement and she sat down again.

The vicar, a dedicated professional, began to continue the service.

Mrs Jones stood up and began to sing ‘The Internationale’.

Most people joined in and no one could hear the vicar

Who became very angry.

“It was a riot”, Nina said, with a wry smile.

When they had finished singing, they started to shout at the vicar.

He shouted back telling them that he was throwing them out 

And they were never to come into his church (or outside it) again.

Everyone cheered, but no one left and Bosco made his last journey

To the sounds of ‘Bandero Rosso’ and ‘Joe Hill’ sung very lustily,

Which he would have liked a lot.

“It was a riot”, Nina said, casting her eyes upwards.

Afterwards, they all enjoyed eating the food that the children had organised.

And drinking the drink and arguing and shouting at those

With whom they had political differences and at those 

With whom they were in complete agreement.

The vicar stopped by and apologised to Mrs Jones, who was very rude at first,

But then happy to sit down and explain her position

While he listened.

People still talk about the riot at the funeral of Bosco Jones

First published in Blue Pepper, May 2016

http://bluepepper.blogspot.co.uk/

Paris in the Spring

We set out hopefully,

hitching our way to Paris,

in the spring.

And we made it, even

found the recommended hostel near Laumiere,

Though a little disconcerted to be

met with a closed door

covered in signs which read 

‘FULL’ in every known language,

we went in anyway.

‘Of course we’re not full 

at this early hour’.

‘Anyway, no one is ever turned away’.

They were planning a demonstration,

a rehearsal for May 1968, 

but of course,

none of us knew that then.

We could join if we wished, 

but of course,

we were too early,

even for the rehearsal.

It was only April.

Just three days

in April

in Paris.

We had coffee on the Champs Elysee

and were shown Notre Dame 

by someone we met there

and then sat on the steps of Sacre Coeur

to eat our French bread lunch.

We held up the traffic at the Arc de Triumph,

triumphantly succeeding in crossing the roads.

And at the hostel the next day

we did our best to be helpful,

getting up early (too cold to sleep),

and cleaned the kitchen and the floor

for the first time in many years.

Then we sat on the stairs 

and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone, 

until it had dried,

explaining carefully in languages we did not speak, 

why this was necessary. 

It was a just long weekend our April in Paris.

It felt like it would last for ever.

First published in Literature Today, Memories Anthology, May 2016

https://www.createspace.com/6282818

Barcelona Sandals

Standing in the Andorra snow

shivering in our Barcelona sandals.

Glad of a lift down to Foix

as darkness was falling.

And the driver knew a hotel,

Hotel du Centre.

Very grand

and full

of people looking down

long noses.

But the driver knew the owner

who was a kind man,

a nice man.

So we shouldn't worry 

about the cost, he said.

A lovely room

and in the morning,

breakfast!

We must eat

the owner said.

Warm bread and jam.

Coffee with hot milk

which tasted sour.

But I don't like

the taste of milk,

anyway,

so most likely

it was sweet.

And then the bill.

But there was no bill.

Save it for the journey,

the owner said.

A kind man,

a nice man,

who believed

the driver's story,

whatever it was.

A few years later, 

we returned to Foix

and went to find 

Hotel du Centre.

But it wasn't there.

No one knew it.

It didn't exist.

Did it ever exist?

Did any of it happen?

Or did we somehow

share

a memory 

from our 

imaginations.

First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016

http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems3/category/lynn-white

Little Sister Lost

I woke in the sunshine

and salvaged my book

from the damp grass.

I stretched..

I looked around..

She wasn’t there.

I looked behind the stone,

then under it.

A pretty blue mouse

scurried

from under,

but no little sister.

Then I thought 

of the rabbit hole under the tree

where the scraggy, stripy cat

had spat and snarled at us 

earlier.

I found the tree

and the rabbit hole.

Was she down there?

It was too small for me to go.

I shouted down

and scraped

and scraped

and scraped

to make it bigger.

A rabbit would do better

with it’s big feet.

A rabbit,

like the one standing behind me

with such big strong feet.

Help me.

Help me.

He sniffed disdainfully

and removed one hand 

from the pocket of his purple fur jacket

to brush the soil I’d splatted

on his white velvet breeches.

Such big strong feet

for digging.

Help me.

Help me.

Help me.

He gave me his spade.

I started to dig

and dig

and dig.

Dig till it was big

enough for me to go

Scrabbling down.

Falling

scrabbling

falling.

Scrabbling,

scrabbling,

scrabbling,

looking for the light

and my little sister.

https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2016/05/22/little-sister-lost-lynn-white/

First published in Silver Birch Press, Fiction series, January 2016

Turning to Ice

Snowflakes lit by sunbeams
blowing gently,
fragile as shadows
making rainbows in the sun.
Smiling in the soft light.
So soft.
So soft.
Catch them quickly in your hair
to melt them.
Time has past and
they're already harder now,
even though the sun
is still shining and smiling.
Blindingly bright.
Crunchy crystals.
Jewels
glistening still.
Shining like diamonds,
but harsh
in the sunlight
while it lasts
Cooler now as
the light starts fading.
The surface is melting.
Shiny where the sun
still catches,
but fading,
giving way to ice.
Losing it's smile.
And we're skidding, sliding
beyond control.
slipping away,
blinded by tears of ice.

https://treehousearts.me/

My Father’s Son

I never knew

my father’s son.

Even though

I met him once,

or maybe twice, 

I never knew him.

And then I met

his son. 

Caught him 

miraculously

in a net.

Held on to him 

tightly.

And, I found

that he hadn’t left early,

my father’s son.

He’d waited for me,

wondering,

for a long time.

And so I found him,

my father’s son.

When he was 

just ninety six,

I found him.

But I was too late

to know him.

At ninety five,

he was already dead.

So I never knew him,

my father’s son.

First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016

http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems3/category/lynn-white

       Dreams

One day soon they'll try to dig up your dreams.

You'll be dead by then,

unable to protect them

any more.

They'll let you rest in peace, but not your dreams.

They'll want them for sure,

they'll want them.

They'll want them to try and find you,

to try and discover who you were.

They'll dig them up, scrabbling amongst the dirt,

seeing what they can find.

Digging up the dirt

to see what they can find 

in there.

They'll discard this piece here, another piece there.

Dross from the dried up remnants,

They'll hang on to the moist bits.

The juicy bits are worth further analysis.

You may be in there.

In your dreams.

Someone else will scrabble to catch 

the dry pieces,

those fragments of dreams thrown away.

The little pieces blown away in the air.

Little snippets,

dreamlets.

But there are flakes of gold hidden there.

I hope they don't find them.

First published in Anti-Heroin Chic, February 2016

http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/two-poems-by-lynn-white

   Jacko

I saw him flapping around in the grass,

one wing at an improbable angle.

I chased him,

caught him,

wrapped him 

carefully

in my cerise and navy school scarf.

Jack, jack, jacko..

Then it was a bus ride to the charity vet

who set the broken wing,

wrapped it

carefully

in plaster,

a heavy pot.

He was subdued on the bus home,

but still managed to greet my mother,

Jack, jack, jacko.

He perked up later after tea

and explored the living room

placing bits of straw artistically

and decorating them with pooh.

Which was why 

he had to live 

at school,

home 

only for weekends.

Jack, jack jacko!

But he enjoyed bus journeys now

and greeted all the passengers,

hopping from shoulder to shoulder,

waking them up with a wang from his pot,

nibbling an ear here and a nostril there.

Most were 

charmed,

but some 

were not.

He was close to becoming

the only jackdaw to be banned

from public transport.

Jack, jack, jacko!!

And then disaster!

the wing had not healed.

There was decay

and gangrene

amputation

and the trimming

of his lovely long feathers

to balance him.

No more hopping

from shoulder to shoulder,

well, maybe later

with practice!

But no more 

prospects of a wild life

for Jacko

Jack, jack, jacko...

And no more home with me

said my mum as the school holidays

loomed threateningly.

Jack, jack, jacko.....

But nearby the vet,

a budgie had died

and it’s owner,

bereaved,

had a need and

it was love at first sight

for both her and Jacko.

Jack, jack, jacko!!

There were photos 

in the press.

He was famous!

A local hero!

Jack, jack, jacko!!!

First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, May 2016

http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems3/category/lynn-white

Ripples

Ripples of time

gathering pace.

Working up to the wave 

that crashed into me, 

propelled me forward

and now sucks me back.

Thirteen decades.

Back.

To a place beyond my imagining,

so tidy now after the crash.

Gentrified now.

Rippling gently.

But before,

in my father’s time.

There was beer mixed mud

and crowding children.

And smells of horses

and metal.

Working.

Fire and metal work.

Children who 

would leave behind

the mud,

and country 

smells,

for the dust

and smog.

For the city grime.

Streets and factories.

More fire and metal.

Bigger.

Grander.

And what then?

Still poor.

What then?

What secrets lie in those ripples

of time

washing over me

now.

http://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems3/category/lynn-white

On Our Bikes

We only had two bikes between the five of us.

Mine was a very grand drop handle barred affair

given by our next door neighbours’ daughter

when she finally left home.

Roger’s was an old ‘sit up and beg’ with a bit of rust

and brakes that (unknown to his mother) did not work.

Our parents supported us on our faltering two wheels,

first in our back yards, then in the street,

where we taught the rest.

Then we were off! 

On the road!

Brakes or no brakes,

it wasn’t a problem!

Just made the hills

more or less exciting

and there was little traffic.

All the roads on our estate were allowed,

only the bottom road,

the main road bordering the countryside, 

was forbidden and we obeyed.

We didn’t ride there.

Then a catastrophe struck.

It was a perfect storm.

The combination of the steep hill, 

the junction with the bottom road,

the bike with no brakes, 

traveling unavoidably, at full speed, 

and a car passing along the bottom road

at that precise moment,

all came together.

It was a catastrophe that took Roger straight 

into the side of the car and over the top.

The bike was almost undamaged,

but Roger was tearful.

He wasn’t hurt,

just fearful 

of his mother,

as the driver insisted on 

taking him home and would 

listen to no argument against this.

After shouting a lot,

his mother took an axe

and chopped up the bike

until bent and broken enough

to satisfy her, then

she put the pieces 

into the big dustbin.

She saw us watching.

“Don’t you amalgamate round here”, 

she shouted, shooing with her arms.

It was her favourite expression 

and usually made us laugh, 

behind her back, 

but not now,

with this tragedy.

We had only one bike

between the five of us.

First published in Silver Birch Press, May 2016

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/05/13/on-our-bikes-poem-by-lynn-white-starting-to-ride-poetry-and-prose-series/

http://www.magcloud.com/webviewer/1062912?__r=26454&s=w

http://www.magcloud.com/webviewer/1062912?__r=26454&s=w

Dandelion Seed by Lynn White

http://www.magcloud.com/webviewer/1062912?__r=26454&s=w

       Meeting

You spoke to me. 

A smile on your lips

and a sadness 

behind your eyes 

to match my own.

I could see it,

recognise it.

I knew it well.

“Hello you”, I said.

“Hello me?”

A gesture,

a question in your voice,

laughter caught 

in the back of your throat

and eyes that smiled.

Momentarily.

At least

momentarily

understanding.

https://issuu.com/wandrmag/docs/reflection_wr_mag_march_april_2016/1

The Driving Instructor

I needed rather a lot of driving lessons.

My lack of a sense of direction didn’t help.

Nor, did my occasional confusion

between right and left.

But, coming up to my test,

my new instructor was sympathetic.

We could go for a Sunday drive, he said.

I could have a free lesson

and maybe a drink after.

Well, why not?

He told me a story over the drink.

He’d been in the war in Singapore.

Such horror.

And conscripts all.

In the chaos 

an enemy soldier had shot his dog.

Shot her.

Killed her,

dead.

Such horror.

And conscripts all.

But, it was alright in the end,

he’d ‘got’ the one who did it.

‘Got him.’ 

Shot him! 

Killed him, 

dead.

Such horror.

And conscripts all.

The life of a man for the life of a dog.

Both shot.

Both killed.

Both dead.

It was the life of the man I valued most.

And I said so

using a lot of words.

Yes, rather a lot of words

loudly spoken.

So no more free lessons,

but I passed my test.

First published in Silver Birch Press, Learning To Drive Series, May 2016

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/05/02/the-driving-instructor-poem-by-lynn-white-learning-to-drive-poetry-and-prose-series/

Tourists                                                                                                            

Car, train, plane or ship.

It's your choice when

you visit the green fields 

of France or Belgium.

And you can stay close or take 

an optional excursion.

It's your choice.

Well, there's money to be made. 

And you'll be moved to marvel 

at the spectacle of it all

stretched out before you.

The bright green fields over fed 

with mashed body parts and blood 

sucked out by vampires' fangs.

Look, see the white teeth crossed

in their rows upon rows

and stand proud with respect.

Snap, snap,

click, click.

Take a few pics

to join to join those of 

last year's beaches, cathedrals 

and other art installations.                                                                                

Immortalised,

lest you forget.

Respect them in their death                                                                                                                                                                                         

the ones who died                                                                                             

for whatever the country.

Respect them in death,

The yes sir, no sirs

of war and of peace.

The ones with no choices.

Remember them.

And remember the vampires.

They’re living still,

as vampires will.

Sucking the blood,

stirring the pot

and making the money.

Crossing Over

Running downhill, on and on,

the orange sun bearing down

on me.

Scorching me, 

burning me up

until

I come to a river cold with ice.

Icy water flowing too fast.

Too fast.

Faster than I can run.

Flaming under that bridge.

A bridge to somewhere 

from here,

from where I am.

But where is here 

or there?

And is the bridge real

or a bridge of dreams.

Or, a bridge for my dreams,

leading nowhere.

If I cross over

will I plummet

into the nowhere

on the other side.

Shall I try?

Or shall I stay here

running

looking for the light

until

I find it.

Nightfall

It’s that time when

Day closes, 

down,

shuts up shop

draws down the blinds,

so that Night can fall

down.

And it does,

every day,

shutting out the light

until

Day breaks 

and the sun shines

through

rising up 

through the dark,

only

waiting for Night 

to drag it down 

again.

The Keys of the Kingdom

The kingdom had so many keys,

keys to its doors,

keys to its gold,

keys to its time,

keys to its secrets.

Nothing moved without a key.

Everything was controlled.

Nothing was free.

Then came the Great War of the Keys

and the kingdom collapsed.

Its doors stayed open,

its secrets exposed.

Its gold melted away.

Its locks grew rusty.

Time stood still.

All it had valued 

rotted away,

decayed,

collapsed 

into a heap

of useless keys.

First published in With Painted Words, February 2016

http://www.withpaintedwords.com/view_submission.php?news_id=986